Remembrance
by junejuly15
Summary: 'A goodbye - destined to break two men. Sherlock - who would never ever be more than a memory and John who was sick and tired of remembering.' One-shot, Post-Reichenbach


**This is the rewritten version of _Remembrance_ , a short and sad one-shot – Post-Reichenbach.**

**I added Sherlock's perspective as a counterpart to John's thoughts.**

**Please read and review!**

**Thank you JJ**

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A scornful smile – that was one of the things he saw when fleeting images would worm their way through his grief. A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, a sinister cousin of its heartwarming variety, only born to express his superiority, his exasperation with the amount of stupidity he felt surrounded by. A smile meant to set him apart from the rest – erecting an invisible wall only John was allowed to breach.

A sulk – reserved for the times when he felt he had made an effort – really made an effort, but nobody seemed to notice or to appreciate it. He had made an effort being polite where politeness had been a prerequisite – He had avoided being himself, hiding his diamond-sharp intelligence. Knowing how to deal with the ensuing sulking had been John's forte as he had always known how to show appreciation when he had gone out of his way to not be himself. Saying sorry was something he rarely did and when it happened he meant it and it was hard for him, but John could take it for what it was – a token of his friendship and his love.

A smirk – reserved for times when they were the essence of each other – a sexy, wicked smirk indicating all the sensuous and dirty and outrageous things he would do to John. Attentively catalogueing his responses - chartering the expanse of his skin - possessing him, pleasuring him, loving him. A smirk that would turn into a moan that would turn into a gasp that would turn into a release.

A lopsided smile – heartwarming, innocent, cunning, seductive. Reserved for John when he felt he had to offer something to cover up a cutting reply or a sarcastic remark. Shown when he needed to cover insecurity. Used when the need arose to let the mask slip, to be himself. Being himself and being comfortable with what he was – that was something he could be with John and with John only.

A fluttering of fingers – an indicator of his inner turmoil. An uninvited and unwelcomed guest. It rarely happened and it troubled him greatly. It disturbed his fragile inner peace, destroyed his balance and he needed John to heal it. It had taken him time to realise that John was his redemption but once he had learnt to turn to him for comfort he could open his heart.

A mass of dark curls – unruly, ruffled when he was exasperated, at odds with the world – dishevelled when they had made love. He remembered weaving his fingers through those curls, using his fingers to tame this mane of satin locks – eliciting sounds from deep within his chest not unlike the purring of a cat. Sometimes he still felt the ghost of this sensation on his fingers – the tingling of nerves – and the memory of this sound reverberating in his ears. He had learned to welcome sleep and the accompanying dreams as much as to abhor them. Sometimes he would see those beloved curls ruffled in desperation – in exasperation - when John admonished him or chided him for his lack of knowledge of the solar system, but more often than not he would see them matted with blood - as they were the last time he had seen him.

A pair of ice blue eyes – so disconcerting, so beautiful, so changeable. John had dreaded them as much as he had loved them. There had been times when he hadn't been able to look into those crystal-like eyes for fear of what he would see in them. There had been times he'd avoided them like the plague because those eyes could read him and he knew that they had looked right into his soul, his heart. There had been times when he'd wanted to drown in their beauty. He would gladly give his life to feel their gaze on him once more – just once.

A body of pale perfection – fragile, wiry, lean. How astonishing that he had never been aware of his own beauty. He hadn't judged other people that way and hadn't regarded himself worthy of this kind of attention. But those long slender limbs - as graceful as a sleek cat, as lithe as a panther - had been truly beautiful. Pale alabaster skin – unblemished then - broken and destroyed now. Never to be touched, kissed, caressed again.

A goodbye – destined to break two men. Sherlock – who would never ever be more than a memory – and John who was sick and tired of remembering.

Enough was enough - He knew it was time to end it.

ooooooo

There was one distinct gesture that came to him first when he conjured up images of their life together. How John dipped his chin when he was exasperated, trying hard not to lose his temper. It was a gesture indicating his urge to stay calm. A gesture Sherlock would see ever so often because he knew how to rile him, to fluster him. Sometimes he did it on purpose just to see John dipping his chin in that adorable manner.

He tilted his head to the side - when he didn't understand, when he was angry, when Sherlock had been socially ungraceful again. This tilt could tell you – _Please explain, I'm not with you_ – it could say _Don't go any further, I'm warning you_ – it could mean _Why don't you just behave, for God's sakes?_ Either way it was an indicator of something gone awry.

He snorted through his nose – when laughter overwhelmed him. That time they had chased through the London night in pursuit of a killer and had ended up giggling like silly schoolboys in the downstairs hall - it had been the first time in months that he had laughed with someone. He had even managed a rather successful joke about John invading Afghanistan. It had been so lovely to see him laugh, an honest, side-splitting laugh. Sherlock had been able to join in, to be just like him and it had opened his eyes.

He rebuked him – the only person he would accept it from. And truly the only person to _understand_ him – from the very first time they had tried to enter the mindset of a murderer together Sherlock had felt that unique quality in him. John had always believed it had taken him some time to open himself, but that wasn't true, he had seen in him the one to make him, the one to understand him from the word go. Sherlock could call him an _idiot_, _his mind placid, barely used_ and all it would earn him was a dip of the chin and maybe silence. John knew how to take him and his stupid remarks.

He weaved his fingers through his hair – it relaxed Sherlock like nothing else, in fact he had never felt anything remotely like that – when they lay on the sofa, his head placed in John's lap and when John let his fingers run through his hair almost unconsciously, the nerves in his body started to tingle and everything became warm and he slowly drifted into a state of utmost relaxation and finally into sleep. It had been John's a magic trick. Now he was unable to sleep - to really sleep - a fitful rest was the most he could hope for, and when it came it would be plagued by dreams of loneliness and loss.

He moaned – gasped, panted, whispered into his mouth when he claimed him, when they made love. John had been the one to show him, to open him for anything human, to everything connected with love and sex and intimacy. He had believed himself incapable and John had proven him wrong. How he had loved to discover his body and what would please him and how happy he had been to serve him, to be there for him.

His strong, muscular body – witness of his time as a soldier. Still showing strength and tenacity. Always so self-conscious because of his scar - a star-shaped scar covering his left shoulder – cicatricial tissue, a clear indicator of past pain and hurt. Sherlock never understood why he was shy about it, he loved that scar as much as he loved the rest of his body. It was a part of him - he was beautiful – he was his.

Their goodbye – it had broken his heart to betray him, to leave him, to lie to him. John was taking it badly – a thought Sherlock couldn't stand any longer.

Enough was enough – He knew it was time to come home.


End file.
